


Unsatisfied

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drug Use, Hero Worship, M/M, Self Confidence Issues, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5510579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Curt, not Brian, had noticed him backstage, said hey, and told him to come closer before they went back on for the encore. In the split second that followed, Brian had given Arthur a quick look and nodded his approval to Curt when Curt pointed him out. Arthur suspects – hopes, at least – that he’ll be going home with both of them tonight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unsatisfied

**Author's Note:**

> This story explores the question, what might have happened if Arthur had met Curt a few months earlier when Curt and Brian were still together and could share him? I've tried to draw quite a bit on research on the glam rock period to make this piece more believable, and you'll probably catch some Bowie lyrics in there (attributed to Brian, of course).

> A cigarette is the perfect type of a perfect pleasure. It is exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. 
> 
> - Oscar Wilde

Curt, not Brian, had noticed him backstage, said hey, and told him to come closer before they went back on for the encore. In the split second that followed, Brian had given Arthur a quick look and nodded his approval to Curt when Curt pointed him out. Arthur suspects – hopes, at least – that he’ll be going home with both of them tonight. His face burns with excitement and lust and drugs. He almost wants to laugh, because it’s unbelievable.

Of course he restrains himself: he can’t risk looking like an idiot kid who’s not worth fucking. He tries to stand still and play it cool for the finale, an electrifying version of _Baby’s On Fire_ with an extra guitar solo for Curt. Arthur can just feel the music pounding and thrumming through him. He prays they won’t have forgotten him by the time they’re done playing, conscious of how easily he could lose their interest. A million boys and girls would give anything for this. Arthur would give anything for it, too; he can’t fuck this up. But Curt winks at him when he walks offstage in the middle of that ear-shattering applause, followed closely by Brian. For all his inexperience, Arthur thinks he’ll be all right. He’s itching with impatience, light-headed with excitement, but still in their sights.

At least he is until Curt gets busy with the set down. Curt tries to unplug and pack up his own guitar when another man, a roadie, Arthur assumes, goes to help. Arthur can’t make out the words, but he thinks the conversation is more of an argument judging by its tone, its awkward pauses, and the dark look on Curt’s face when he gives up and storms away. He ignores the roadie rather pointedly, Arthur thinks, and lights a cigarette. Brian, meanwhile, has wandered into the other wing to call over one of the guys from the venue. The sound was weird tonight; Malcolm and the rest of the Creatures had complained several times about the PA’s inexplicable bursts of static, which didn’t improve much for Brian’s and Curt’s performance. It wouldn’t surprise Arthur at all if Brian is making a similar complaint. Maybe he’s threatening not to play here again. He’ll probably get much more respect than the Creatures, who were only the opening act.

_Just don’t forget_ me, Arthur thinks, stealing another glance at Curt. _God._ His heart pounds. He’s never considered himself a groupie until tonight. He’s lucky Ray liked him enough to insist that the Creatures take him on for a bit, and he sleeps with Ray sometimes, the same way he has slept with a few other guys after concerts or parties, but he’s still inexperienced _._ The thought of maybe having both Curt and Brian – of both of them having _him_ – is too much. He’s actually a little queasy with nerves, and his hands are cold despite how hot the rest of him is. _Don’t do anything to ruin this_ , he thinks. He knows himself, though, and knows he’s liable to get so shy and tongue-tied that it becomes a turnoff.

Brian’s still with the guy from the venue. Arthur’s unsure if he should be relieved or not. He’d hate to have his hopes crushed, and Brian is known for alternating between cold and distant with fans or welcoming and smiling, even flirty. If Arthur could catch his eye and see a nod or some sign of recognition, that might give him an idea of what to expect. Brian doesn’t notice him, however, so Arthur stands around, hanging back, and wishing he had something to take. That would help, too. He’s found Quaaludes are good for making him less fucking shy, and acid’s worked well for him in the past, although he’s had a few bad trips lately, which wouldn’t do at all tonight. Julie, Malcolm’s sort-of-girlfriend, usually has a good supply of pot available, but he doesn’t want to leave this precious spot to look for anyone else. Besides, Arthur should be helping the Creatures with their gear. They can’t afford their own roadies yet any more than they could afford to keep Arthur around just because he sleeps with Ray. Arthur thinks Malcolm likes him, too; Malcolm is bi, and thick as Arthur is, he’s pretty sure Malcolm’s flirted with him from time to time. But that’s still not enough to guarantee him a place with the group and a roof over his head, so he tries to make himself useful.

Well. He does _most_ of the time. He doesn’t think they’d mind him disappearing for a threesome with Brian Slade and Curt Wild, though. Who would mind? More to the point, who’d pass that up?

Arthur’s stomach flip flops at the words. _Oh god, oh god; I’m going to ruin it; they’re going to forget me, ‘cause everyone always does…_  He looks from Brian to Curt again, bites his nails, and, finally, thinks of something to _do_.

“Can I help?” he asks, approaching Curt. Curt turns and raises an eyebrow at Arthur, who feels his mouth go dry. _Shit._ Brian may have a reputation for being changeable and inconsistent, but Curt is supposed to be completely erratic, with a destructive streak to match the best destructive, rebellious, glorious minds in rock, and with a tendency to make journalists cry when he’s the right (or wrong) kind of angry. Arthur doesn’t even know all that much about Curt. He’s not, well, _Brian_ to Arthur, though of course Arthur likes his music very much, too. He thinks of one of Brian’s lyrics – _you love bands when they play it hard_ – and smiles a faltering smile; the words seem appropriate when he thinks of Curt.

“The hell would you know about it?” Curt asks. Arthur’s chest constricts, but he imagines Curt could do much worse if he wanted to. There might be a hint of amusement in his voice; Arthur certainly hopes so.

“Well, I do work with the Flaming Creatures,” he stammers. “I _do_ know what to do.”

Curt looks him over, then returns the smile, much to Arthur’s relief.

“Not just a pretty face? That’s good.”

Arthur’s face warms. Curt takes a step back from his gear and from the roadie who’s doing his best to ignore them both and to seem invisible. Arthur knows that feeling, all right.

“There’s just so many goddamn _people_ ,” Curt says. “Brian’s people. He always thinks big. There’s just not enough for me to do, sometimes.”

It’s funny, but Arthur imagines he knows what it’s like for Curt, too. For all Curt’s such a big star he looks a little lost himself, a little fidgety, on the huge stage with the curtains closed now, obviously waiting around for other people to do things and not happy about it. Then again, Arthur might be letting his imagination run away with him. He probably is.

“Never mind,” Curt says, roughly. “D’you want to get out of here?”

_With him,_ Arthur thinks, so relieved he can barely contain himself. He’d read Curt right, and probably Brian, too. He nods, trying not to seem too eager.

Curt jerks his head toward the stage left exit. Arthur follows him into the narrow backstage corridor which he remembers from when he came here hours ago. Once they’re alone near the performers’ entrance, Curt pulls Arthur close and kisses him so hard that they stagger back against the wall. Arthur opens his mouth to Curt’s probing tongue and grips his shirt for a moment before slipping his hands underneath it to grasp Curt’s warm skin. Curt’s hands are all over Arthur, his sides, his arse, the front of his jeans; Arthur shudders against Curt, and holds him tighter. He likes Curt’s taste – cigarettes and heat and something else – likes tasting nothing but _him_ for seconds, a minute, as long as they can stay together in the dark corridor.

But they do have to breathe, eventually. Curt breaks the kiss to let them. Arthur stifles a whimper of loss. He still can’t believe that Curt wants him, that there’ll be anything more after this one kiss.

“There’s a limo outside,” Curt whispers into Arthur’s ear. “To take you to your dreams, I bet.”

More butterflies in Arthur’s stomach. He struggles to speak, grateful for the darkness that might hide his open-mouthed stare, and manages a soft _yeah._

_Shit_ , he thinks, as Curt draws back a little further.

“Hey, it’s not a bad thing,” Curt says. For a moment Arthur isn’t sure what he means. Then he supposes that Curt must have mistaken his awkwardness for being offended, or something like that.

“I know,” he says quickly. “It _is_ my dream.”

He pulls Curt closer to kiss him again. They’re the same height, despite Curt’s impressive platform shoes. Curt’s stubble grazes Arthur’s jaw. Arthur wants to lose himself in that delicious friction and touch and in Curt’s taste, but he’s too damn jittery and too conscious that any of the roadies or technicians or security could walk in on them. He wishes he weren’t so afraid to be himself in public. Isn’t that what this scene is all about?

“Come on,” Curt whispers when they break their second kiss. He leads Arthur through the remainder of the corridor, which is empty until they reach the exit and step out into a small crowd of security guards and waiting fans. Curt glares at the awed kids, some of whom start to scream or cheer when they see him, one or two of whom have to be restrained by security. Curt flips them all the bird. Arthur stares at the crowd, distracted. He thinks he can recognize the jealousy in one girl’s eyes when he passes her. He looks down, tempted to emulate Curt and tell her to fuck off, but he knows he doesn’t have it in him. Anyway, he might have looked at her the same way had their roles been reversed.

“Aren’t we waiting for Brian?” Arthur asks as one of the security guards clears a path to the waiting black limousine, allowing him to slide into it after Curt. Arthur looks at the car’s interior in wonder, excitement coursing through him. He has never, ever been in a car like this, and has only _seen_ a couple at a distance in recent months, outside concerts when the star arrives. He clasps his hands, trying not to look too much like a kid on Christmas morning as he turns back to Curt.

Curt’s scowling. He lights a cigarette, takes a long drag, rather hesitantly, then rolls his eyes at Arthur, who assumes that as usual, he has said or done the wrong thing.

“I’m _always_ waiting for Brian,” Curt mutters. “Everyone is. You get used to it, ‘cause he’s Brian and he’s worth it.”

But the resentment in his voice is obvious enough to check Arthur’s excitement, for a moment. He hadn’t realized that things might be souring between them. The press made it seem like they were really in love, or whatever, and ready to take on the world, and of course Arthur had liked to believe in a happy, creative, gay glam relationship being not just possible but also successful. Predictably, he finds himself at a loss for words. He worries at his lip and reaches for Curt.

“Well, you’ve got me,” he offers, knowing it must be a very stupid thing to say. Curt could have dozens or hundreds of groupies and fans, like those kids waiting by the performers’ entrance. They’d all be desperate for a piece of Curt and a hell of a story to tell their friends afterward. Arthur’s not special in any way; he knows that, but he’d like to offer to do something nice for Curt, even if he has precious little _to_ offer. He knows he’s not about to become Curt’s boyfriend or anything: it’s just that Curt sounds rather _sad_ , which is unexpected. It would be sad, if things were becoming strained between him and Brian.

_Maybe I’m imagining it_ , he tells himself, looking down. _Hearing things that aren’t there._ But Curt exhales his cigarette smoke and gives a half-laugh.

“That’s not so bad,” Curt says, cupping Arthur’s face. Arthur’s breath catches in his throat. “What’s your name?”

Arthur tells him. Curt nods and moves closer to place another soft kiss on Arthur’s mouth. Arthur can feel his cock twitch and start to harden against his pants and jeans. He knows there must be a driver somewhere in the front, and knows they’re only one metal car door away from that whole crowd of people, but Curt is brazen, like Arthur wishes _he_ could be, and they seem so isolated. He leans in against Curt’s chest.

“Don’t be scared,” Curt murmurs. “Are you high?”

Arthur had hoped Curt would ask. Curt might have something for his nerves, but he hadn’t wanted to bring it up. He wonders what people would say – people back in his old life, his parents or people at his old school. They’d think what he’s doing was so dodgy and seedy, and he loves that thought.

“I’m coming down,” he replies, staring at Curt.

Curt laughs, a full, proper one this time.

“That’s no good. Here.”

He leans forward. Arthur sits back against the cool leather seat and watches expectantly as Curt opens a drawer on the panel across from them, takes out a small white plastic bag, and begins rolling a joint which he offers to Arthur.

“Thanks a lot,” Arthur says.

Curt shrugs.

“You know I wanted to take you home and fuck you from the minute I first saw you,” Curt remarks, trailing his finger down Arthur’s side.

Arthur beams as he starts to inhale.

“Well, thanks,” he murmurs. He takes a deep drag on the joint, still absorbed in Curt’s face. He looks so intense, so focused ( _on_ me _? I can’t believe it_ ) that Arthur is speechless once again. Why would Curt, of all people – someone who’s in love with Brian Slade – want _him_ for anything? Whatever it is, Arthur’s beyond lucky. Curt is incredible. Pictures in the papers or on album covers and TV interviews don’t do him justice. His eyes are bluer than Arthur realized, his smile easier and warmer. If Arthur’s not careful he’ll fall right in love with Curt, never mind Brian. Maybe he is already.

“Then share me with Brian after?” Arthur asks, trying not to giggle, and realizing that he feels calmer and looser than he had mere seconds ago. It goes to show how much he needed the joint.

Curt scoffs. “Yeah. Figured I’d share you with my boyfriend this time.”

_Oh my God,_ Arthur thinks, his throat tightening. _He says_ this time _like there could_ be _a next time._

“Great,” he manages, and clasps Curt’s arm with his free hand. He tries to indicate the joint and change the subject, still not high enough to cope with his good fortune without getting all shy and muddled again. He’ll be better in a few minutes. _Hopefully._ “This is really good.”

“Can’t have you coming down, and I wouldn’t give a nice kid like you anything harder…”

Now Arthur can’t hold back his giggle. He hopes Curt meant to be funny, and thinks he did because of the gleam in those blue eyes.

“Not that I give a shit what people think,” he adds. Arthur takes another drag while Curt finishes his cigarette and starts rolling a joint of his own.

Arthur murmurs, “ _I_ think you’re wonderful.”

He regrets the words as soon as they are said. He sounded so young just now. He looks away from Curt, not quite panicking like he would if he were sober, but more tense and fidgety than he had been. _Everyone_ must say shit like that. How boring. He wants to kick himself.

Curt might as well be a mind-reader.

“Everyone says that,” he points out. Arthur bites his lip and looks up again to catch Curt’s theatrical eye roll. “Well, fans. People at shows. They say it now.” His mouth curls into a feral expression that’s part grin and part bared-teeth snarl. “That – or I’m a fucked up train wreck who’s just gonna die any day now and good riddance. It’s love me or hate me.”

_Well, I love you_ , Arthur thinks. This time, he’s clever enough not to say the words aloud. His mind is slowing down, which is usually good for him – it keeps him from overthinking things and making a fool of himself – but the thought of Curt dying makes him cringe. They’ve only just met, but Curt is so kind and interesting and attractive, and Arthur feels as if he really _knows_ him, although he would have described himself as much more of a Brian fan before tonight. He edges closer to Curt.

“Do you care? I mean, I wouldn’t think you did…”

“Fuck no,” Curt says. “Would you?”

He holds the joint between his lips and slings one arm over Arthur’s shoulders, as if they’d been together for years. Arthur giggles against his leather jacket.

“I would,” he admits, remembering Curt’s question. “More than I should care, anyway.” He hesitates, then screws up his courage. “It’s why I need you.”

It seemed like a clever, profound thing to say, which might just be a sign that the joint has kicked in fully. Arthur fidgets in his seat, hungry for Curt's reply. _Come on. I've never been more honest with anyone..._

Curt says nothing for a moment, just nuzzles Arthur's cheek. Arthur tilts his face to kiss him. He wonders if it will be as good or somehow better when Brian joins them, if he'll join them.

"Well," Curt murmurs, "I’m glad I can do something good."

"Are we still waiting for Brian?" Arthur whispers into Curt's ear. "’Cause I could just go home with you, you know."

Curt scoffs. "I bet you would. But it's like I said. Brian always keeps people waiting."

Arthur's pretty sure he can hear awe in Curt’s voice, the sort of thing he might have felt – sounded like – himself. It's mixed with something that sounds like frustration, too.

"Anyway," Curt goes on, moving his hand down to the waistband of Arthur's jeans, "we're talking too much. We could do better things to pass the time."

Arthur nods, gleefully, and launches himself into Curt's arms. Their kiss is bruising, and Arthur parts his lips and pulls Curt closer, welcoming his tongue into his mouth. He shuts his eyes against Curt's skin, stunned at his good fortune – at being free and happy and sitting in a limousine snogging Curt Wild and waiting to meet Brian Slade, to sleep with both of them.

He feels Curt pull back from him before he hears the car door open, opens his eyes, and meets Brian Slade's gaze. Arthur's mouth goes slack, and he closes it with an effort. But Brian sees him for only a moment before beaming at Curt, who loosens his grip on Arthur.

"Sorry I'm late," Brian says.

He slides into the limousine beside Curt. Curt takes his hand, and Arthur draws back into the corner, forgotten. He doesn't blame Curt. Brian is just stunning – more androgynously beautiful than Curt is, with the reddest lips Arthur has ever seen on a man. The black silk shirt he has on highlights his flushed skin and blue hair. Arthur shudders. He still wishes he could pinch himself to make sure he isn't dreaming.

"What did they say?" Curt asks. "'Cause I'm not fucking playing there again if the sound's such shit..."

"They've been notified," Brian replies. "We said pretty much the same thing, in fact."

Curt shifts away from Brian, just a little, and digs around for a cigarette.

"I meant the fucking management, you know," he says after a moment. "Just getting the technician in shit isn't..." Arthur's surprised to hear resignation in his voice; he hadn't realised Curt was so under Brian's sway. Somehow that never quite made it into the interviews. He wouldn't have expected it from Curt.

"It's fine," Brian says. "It'll be fine."

Silence, then. Curt takes a deep drag. Brian turns back to Arthur.

"What's your name?" he asks.

Arthur goes bright red, and stammers his name, though he’s barely audible. Curt pats his knee.

"Brian, this is Arthur," he says. Brian gives a small smile, though Arthur's not sure if it’s meant for him or for Curt.

"Did you like the show, Arthur?" he asks.

There's a lump in Arthur's throat. _Fuck_ , he thinks. _Oh God, oh God..._

"V – Very much…”

He wishes he could say something clever, but his pulse has quickened and his mouth is too dry, even though he takes comfort in the reassuring weight of Curt's hand on his leg.

"I was getting Arthur ready to come home with us," Curt adds, reaching for the bag of pot. "You want some?"

Brian nods and takes the bag from him.

"Never stayed at the Dorchester, have you Arthur?"

Arthur shakes his head. "No."

He'd been wondering if they were staying in a hotel or if he was actually going to see Brian's North London home, or the Richmond flat Brian and Mandy Slade had found for Curt when he came to England. Arthur has, of course, read enough news articles and biographies to know the stories. His insides flutter.

"I've only been in London a couple months," Arthur says. He knows his accent sounds very broad, very obvious; his cheeks grow hotter than ever. "Working for the Flaming Creatures."

"Brilliant," Brian replies. Arthur imagines that he sounds indifferent. He settles against the leather seat back, rolls a joint, and starts to smoke it. Arthur relaxes a little.

"Are you from Manchester, Arthur?" Brian asks.

Arthur nods.

"I think you're having a better time here," Curt says, kissing Arthur's cheek. Arthur leans into him again.

"Freer," Curt adds.

"Much," Arthur says immediately, thinking of his experiences in glam London, and of the experience waiting for him tonight. He licks his lips.

"Good," Curt says, before pulling Arthur into a kiss. Arthur tenses when he feels Brian join them, smooth skin and soft mouth brushing against the back of his neck. Then Arthur is nudged aside, gently, and presses up against the door to watch Curt and Brian kiss – devour each other, really all teeth and grasping hands. Arthur's cock is uncomfortably hard beneath his jeans. This is a thousand times more amazing, more incredible, than pictures or fantasies. His heart pounds and he wishes he were in the privacy of their hotel so he could get off already. Instead he pushes himself into another three way kiss, starting with Curt.

*

“Will this by your first time trying champagne?” Brian asks, coyly.

Arthur stands in the doorway looking around the hotel room with its plush red carpets, its wallpapers that look like gold, and its gleaming, carved furniture. He shakes his head. Of course he hasn’t had champagne before. When would he? The Flaming Creatures can’t waste their money on luxuries like that – not yet, anyway.

Brian steps into the room first, sits down on a sofa by a panelled cabinet, and beckons Arthur to join him. Curt moves into the room without looking at either of them. Arthur watches him head straight to the gilded wood counter that separates the sitting area from the dining area and pour himself a shot of something. Arthur thinks it’s whiskey, judging by the size and style of the bottle. He takes a step further into the room and looks from one of them to the other.

“You’re welcome to a glass, you know,” Brian says, indicating the champagne on the counter. “Or two.”

Curt turns back to Arthur with warmth in his eyes. Arthur smiles at him.

“Don’t be nervous,” Curt says, after downing his shot in one go. Arthur takes another step into the sitting room. He wants them so much his knees are weak, only, he has no idea how to make the next move.

“I’m not,” he says. “Not nervous, I mean.”

He perches on the sofa next to Brian and tries not to sink into the soft fabric.

“Well, I can see you’ve never stayed here,” Brian says, shaking his head. “I didn’t need to ask.”

Arthur agrees with a blank nod. The hotel is from a different world than the one he has lived in or travelled in with the Creatures. This place is glamour and luxury on a scale he couldn’t even dream of, an unfathomably far cry from the narrow Victorian inns in Brighton, with their faded pastels, which his family had sometimes vacationed in when he was small. _When I still had_ _a family._ He pushes the thought away and looks at Brian, then at Curt. Jesus, he’s so nervous that his hands are cold and he feels like he could be sick, despite the pot he has smoked. As much as he wants this he’s still so afraid to say or do something wrong, something to show Curt and Brian what a loser he is. _Like a bloody kid_ , he thinks. He tilts his face down before looking for Curt again. Curt is busy pouring out another shot of alcohol, his blond hair hiding his face.

“The champagne,” Brian reminds Arthur, in his beautiful speaking voice. Everything about him is beautiful. _Unreal._

“Yeah,” Arthur replies. He has to clear his throat before going on. “Thanks.”

Curt finishes his drink and sighs.

“For fuck’s sake, Brian,” he says, mock-scolding. The tone brings the smile back to Arthur’s face. “You could be a better host.”

“So could you,” Brian fires back, in the same teasing tone. Arthur wonders if it’s all right to laugh. After all, Curt is laughing a little as he opens the overhead cabinet and takes out two champagne glasses.

“You okay?” he asks, pouring a glass for Arthur, then one for Brian. Arthur’s face is hot. He can’t admit he’s so shocked to be here that it’s turning his brain to mush, and can they please get on with it before they realize he’s a stupid, star-struck kid and not worth bothering with? _This is what I get for not being high_ enough _…_

“’Course,” he replies, with all the bravado he can muster. He takes one glass from Curt, letting his fingers brush against the older man’s for as long as he can. Curt takes his hand and holds it, and Arthur stares into his eyes as he takes his first sip of the champagne. Curt breaks their eye contact to look from Arthur to Brian before he puts Arthur’s hand to his lips and kisses it. Arthur inhales sharply. No one has _ever_ treated him like this before, so gentle and, well, romantic. He wonders if Brian is in on this seduction, or if he’s more of a voyeur or, maybe, if he’s getting jealous ( _sure, Brian Slade’s jealous of_ me – _sounds believable)_. But he doesn’t want to look away from Curt to check or try to gauge Brian’s reaction.

Then Curt takes Arthur’s index and middle fingers and sucks them into his mouth, a wet, teasing gesture that makes Arthur’s hair prickle and his cock ache. He lets his eyes fall shut, imagining Curt sucking him off the way he’s sucking on Arthur’s hand – running his tongue over his nails and sucking the fingers deep into his throat as if he has no gag reflex at all.

Arthur sighs when Curt lets go, abruptly. He sinks back into the sofa, letting the empty champagne flute drop. It makes no sound on the carpet. Brian picks the flute up with a laugh.

"Well, don't waste it,” he says, slipping a hand onto Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur tilts his face to stare at him, his skin tingling. God, he needs more to drink – more courage. It's stupid, yet he still can't believe his good fortune. Brian takes the bottle of champagne and offers him another glass, which he drinks deeply. The taste and texture hit his palate, sweeter and cooler now that he’s more aware of them. The champagne is more grown up than anything he has had before. It’s perfect, like everything about tonight is perfect – everything except his own damn nerves.

Brian trails his fingers down Arthur's side to caress his hip. Arthur swallows hard, wishing he could get rid of the lump in his throat. Then he finishes his glass of champagne and wraps himself around Brian, kissing him again – kissing Brian Slade, like he has dreamed of doing for years, gripping tightly. Brian darts his tongue over Arthur's lips; he parts them at once. He is so warm from alcohol, excitement, arousal, that every nerve in his body feels like it's on fire. Him – snogging Brian Slade. All that time spent alone in his room wanking, and here he is… 

Brian's tongue flicks its way through Arthur's mouth, as light and sweet as the champagne. His touch is cooler than Curt's, his scent flavoured with a different type of cigarette smoke. Arthur sucks on his tongue.

"Another drink?" Brian asks when he pulls back. Arthur nods and licks Brian's taste from his lips. Brian's eyes have drifted back to Curt.

"No champagne for you?" Brian asks him.

Curt sniggers.

“You know me," he says. There’s no awe in his tone this time; it’s more like familiarity and comfort. Maybe Arthur had just imagined things earlier. "That shit's too – too show off-y, and too fruity...” He shrugs. “Give me a couple beers or a whisky neat any day.”

Brian nods, his face creasing into a smile.

“Suit yourself,” he says, “but come join us – or do you just want to watch this time?”

"No," Curt says. He drops onto the sofa, and puts his arms around Arthur as he presses close to kiss Brian, just by Arthur's neck. Arthur has to twist out of the way to watch them properly. His cock is harder than it's been in a long time, which is saying something, because he’s had some good sex with Ray and other guys he’s been with, just – not like this. Never like this. He swallows.

"Bed?" Brian suggests after a minute or so spent snogging Curt. Arthur nods, though neither of them is really looking at him. He doesn't mind. Still, he welcomes the feel of Curt's hand groping for his leg, shudders a little, and kisses Curt’s shoulder.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Curt asks, shifting in his seat to look at Arthur at last.

"Yeah," Arthur says, suppressing a nervous hiccup or giggle. "Of course."

Brian stands up first, disengaging from Curt and Arthur, walking toward the bedroom, and motioning them to follow him. Curt takes Arthur’s hand again and they do.

*

Arthur's not sure how long the sex lasts. He doesn't care; he's too happy, too euphoric being kissed by them and quite literally shared between them in that splendid bedroom. His vision starts to blur once the third or maybe fourth glass of champagne kicks in, but as long as he can still _see_ them he's all right, and he _can,_ in the gold-framed mirror across from the bed.

He has to shut his eyes when Curt lies him down on his front, spreads him, and presses one slicked finger inside him. Arthur hears himself moan deep in his throat. His open-mouthed reflection, Brian's hungry, interested eyes watching him, and Curt's weight and warmth behind him and in him – they're all too much. He shuts his eyes and stifles his next moan into the blanket as Curt presses his finger in deeper. Arthur bucks his hips backward, impatient to take more of Curt into him. The movement stretches him too far, too fast; he jerks away, feels relief, then whimpers with loss rather than pain when Curt draws his hand back. Another soft touch to his hip stills him. He doesn’t know if it's Curt's touch or Brian's, but he'll take it either way.

"Tell me if it hurts, okay??" Curt says.

"It won't," Arthur murmurs. He knows it won't, despite evidence to the contrary. He has always wanted this, and he trusts them both. Besides, he is so hard already that he might explode or something if he doesn't get off soon.

"I bet," Curt teases.

Arthur opens his eyes. Brian is rubbing his hip, his own cock hard and flushed; he leans in to stroke Arthur’s cheek.

"You've had plenty of champagne,” he remarks. “You should be relaxed, love.”

_Love._ Something inside Arthur tingles; he gropes for Brian’s hand, though he can’t quite reach it from where he’s spread-eagled.

"Had some good weed, too," Curt adds. If he were in any other situation, Arthur would have laughed: they sound like such a _team_ , talking him over. But Arthur is aching from arousal, from wanting them. He feels Curt's lips brush the back of his neck, and tenses. Then Curt's finger is back in him, and joined by a second soon after, opening him up as he wills his body to relax. It's not the first time he's been in this position, of course, but the stakes are higher – much higher – and he’s certain he’ll enjoy it much more.

Soon Curt moves his hand away from Arthur's arse to penetrate him with his cock instead. Arthur gasps and bites his bottom lip as the rhythm builds, before Brian grips his face and kisses him. His lips and tongue stifle Arthur’s moans as he reaches down to pump his own cock in time with Curt’s thrusts, though his cry is audible when Curt’s fingers join his a second later. Arthur’s eyes flutter shut, then open again. He can see Curt's face in the mirror, flushed and sweaty, with those blue eyes fixed on Brian as he’s fucking Arthur: the tilt of his head and the looks in his eyes and Brian's leave no doubt of that. It's beautiful, really – beautiful and debauched and just _amazing_ at once. Arthur's not jealous at all.

He tenses, gritting his teeth as a particularly deep thrust sends acute pleasure and pain shooting through him. He's so close to coming he can't stand it, because he doesn’t want it to be over this soon; he’d like them to switch so they both fuck him at some point, although the sex is hard and dirty and fast, and won’t last that long. Arthur strains to hold out as long as he can despite that pressure inside him, the thrusting he's sure he can feel in every nerve, and Curt's tight grip on his cock. He looks at Brian, reaches his hand out to him. Brian is watching him and Curt and jerking off. Incredible, how the roles have reversed. Arthur shifts position to try to kiss him, and Brian takes charge, leaning forward and clamping down on Arthur's lips and tongue with his teeth as Arthur gives another whimper. He reaches for Brian's prick with his free hand, but Brian has other ideas. He takes Arthur by the shoulders and moves him down toward his cock, and Arthur starts to suck it eagerly. He catches sight of himself in the mirror before he is bent over too far to see. He looks so used that the sight makes him delirious, and he makes a sound that’s somewhere between a moan and a laugh and that gets lost in Brian's taste.

Arthur can't hold back much longer. He comes in hot spurts over Curt's warm palm and that soft, plush blanket. He thinks he sees stars behind his closed eyes when he does.

Curt slows his thrusts as Arthur's body tenses up. He digs his fingers into the bed to steady himself, grateful for Curt's consideration, and busies himself with sucking Brian off. Curt quickens his pace again. Arthur steels himself for the discomfort and tries not to gag.

Brian finishes first, which makes Arthur thrill with pride. He swallows as much as can before spitting onto his hands and the bed with no thought for how the mess will look in the morning. At last Curt shudders behind Arthur, gasps, _Fuck_ , as if he were in a daze, and comes inside Arthur. When he finishes he pulls out and lies down on his back. Brian has already stretched out on the side of the bed nearest the wall. Arthur blinks his weary eyes. He sees the look Curt and Brian exchange, and lies down beside them, dazed.

*

The pain beneath his skull wakes Arthur. He brings his hands up to his face and rubs his temples. Then he remembers the night that gave him the hangover – notes the slight soreness in his arse, which is normal after a good fucking – and grins. _Worth it,_ he thinks. Worth everything.

He opens his eyes. Somehow, he has left, or maybe been kicked out of, the king size bed he thought he fell asleep in. He flushes at the thought. He is lying on his back on the sofa opposite the bed where Curt and Brian are still sleeping. For a moment Arthur wishes he were there, too, as if he should be important to them. But he's much, much luckier than he ever thought he would be, or than most people are. Important is too much to ask for.

He sits up, realizing that sweat has plastered his hair to his forehead and the blanket to his legs. The blanket is much thinner than the one on the bed, but warm and practical. It must have been a spare from a cupboard in the hotel room, though he has no idea how he came by it. It doesn't really matter. He takes it off and drapes it across the tufted back of the sofa, silently. His skin is sticky with more than just sweat, which is all right: Arthur finds he likes wearing Curt's and Brian's marks on him.

Then again, he won't like people on the Tube staring at him for being a Nancy boy and a tarted up freak. He probably worries more than he should about people's dark stares, only, sometimes, when he's away from the glam clubs and concert halls where he _knows_ people are young and open-minded, he can see his dad's expression in the way strangers look him over. Those moments always bring him back to the day his father walked in on him and figured him out for sure. They always make him want to hide, to blend in better.

His chest tightens. Maybe it's just his hangover, like the slight nausea or the headache which seems to be making his brain shrink in on itself. He wonders if he can sneak into the bathroom, not to be sick – God, he hopes he won't be sick in an exquisite room like this one – but to take a fast shower. The warm water has helped him before when he's had headaches. Besides, it'd be nice to feel less literally filthy when he has to go home. Then again, he'd be mortified if he woke Curt or Brian. What are the rules for leaving a threesome, anyway? Make a quick, discreet exit so they don't have to see him again? Or wait around and hope they're up for another go? Somehow, practical questions had never come up in his fantasies.

He pulls the blanket around his body again, suddenly self-conscious. His t-shirt, jeans, and pants are lying on the carpet between the door and the bed. He _might_ be able to get up and put them on, or get them and sneak into the bathroom to dress, without waking Curt or Brian. God knows they all had enough to drink and to smoke last night. Come to think of it, if he waits around until they wake up, he could beg for another joint – or simply take one himself right now. It might help with the headache and the nausea. He just doesn't know what to do. He chews his thumbnail until he tastes the disgusting, chemical taste of his nail polish and winces.

Arthur thinks he wastes at least five minutes lying there doing nothing except ruining his nails and making his fingers bleed. His head throbs worse than it has in a long time. Getting up isn't very appealing right now. He considers going back to sleep, but what if they won't want to see him anymore? Arthur will take what he can get, and the last few hours have been the best of his life. He shouldn’t ruin them by outstaying his welcome.

Eventually, the awkwardness of lying in limbo on the sofa forces him up. This time, he stoops to pick up his clothes, gritting his teeth against the pain and dizziness, and noticing his deep blush in the mirror when he stands up. _Ridiculous_ , he thinks. He's completely alone, unless Curt or Brian were to wake up, and yet he’s standing here red-faced imagining with gnawing dread a maid or manager from the hotel figuring out what he’s been doing. _It won’t happen_ , he thinks. _No one’s coming, and there’s nothing obvious – and I’ll be dressed in a minute._ But the hairs at the back of his neck prickle even though he knows he shouldn’t feel this way. It’s not like he regrets what he did. Sleeping with both of them? He’ll cherish the memory forever. He’s not ashamed or anything.

_I have to go home_ , he tells himself. He takes one last look at Brian and Curt before creeping into the bathroom. Marble floors and gold taps, of course. Arthur looks around him in wonder. The place is beautiful; it will be a fitting end to a beautiful few hours. He chucks his clothes onto the countertop and steps into the shower. The tap is complicated enough for him to need a few seconds before he figures out how to work it, and when he does, he tries to count the minutes that he spends under the warm water cleaning himself and rubbing his head wishing it would stop pounding. It doesn’t. His four minute shower over, he dresses as fast as he can, hardly bothering to dry himself off. The throbbing tightness in his skull is as bad as ever. He scowls at the marble floor as he pulls on his jeans. _Rubbish idea anyway. Old wives’ tale._ But he’ll feel calmer, and probably won’t be such an obvious target for people’s contempt on the Tube.

Arthur catches sight of his own faltering smile in the mirror. He reminds himself of how he ended up in this hotel with this hangover: sleeping with Curt and Brian for his first threesome. A bad headache, or a few disapproving stares from strangers who might catch on don’t matter. He has transcended bourgeois, old-fashioned, repressed nonsense like that, to do something that’s _so_ much better. Ray and Malcolm will be so jealous – not of his sleeping around, but that it wasn’t them. For once Arthur will have done something cooler, hotter, more interesting. He tucks his hair behind his ears, beaming now, his stupid, pointless nerves just about gone.

And then he opens the bathroom door to see Curt standing in the hall right in front of him. Arthur’s mouth opens. Somehow he hadn’t counted on either of them waking up before he could leave, but there Curt is, dressed in jeans and an unremarkable black t-shirt and holding a mug of coffee. He looks Arthur over, his lips twitching at Arthur’s reaction.

“Hey,” he says.

Arthur tears at the skin around a fingernail. He hopes it won’t look like he regrets last night, despite his wanting to leave before things got awkward, or before he would make things awkward by being himself.

“Hey,” he replies. “I just – thought I should look all right before heading home, you know?”

_Fuck_ , he thinks. He hadn’t meant to sound so vain or selfish _._ He cringes when Curt laughs at him.

“You look fine.”

Arthur fidgets.

“Thanks,” he says. He hopes Curt meant it, though of course he can’t ask. He tries to change the subject instead. “I figured you’d sleep longer…”

Curt shakes his head. “I never sleep much, me.”

At least Arthur has the sense to avoid a stupid schoolboy answer like _Oh._ He nods, moves out of the way and watches Curt enter the bathroom to take two tablets from a pill bottle by the sink – methadone, maybe – and swallow them with a gulp of coffee. Not that Arthur’s judging.

“I’m waiting for Brian,” Curt says, tilting his head toward the bedroom. Arthur frowns, unsure if the gesture is sexy and romantic to see, or a little sad. _I’m_ always _waiting for Brian…_ “But you can stay for breakfast, you know.”

“Thanks,” Arthur says again. But as much as he’d like to stay, he did run off after the show last night without telling anyone where he was going. He’s pretty sure the Creatures won’t mind once they hear what he’s been doing, but he can’t afford a row with them. He can’t lose the few friends he has these days.

“I should probably go,” he says, before he can think better of it. Curt’s brow furrows. He looks rather worried, or at least disappointed. _Oh, God, he really wanted me…_

“The – um – the band might need me,” Arthur adds, feeling that stupid blush creeping down to his neck. He looks away.

“Well, you could give me a call sometime,” he hears Curt say over the sound of his lighter.

“You mean that?” Arthur asks.

Another burst of Curt’s easy laughter.

“Yeah. Why not? We could do this again.”

He cups Arthur’s face, guiding it upward. Arthur’s heart leaps as he leans into the touch.

“You’d have to convince ‘em you really know me,” Curt goes on, “but I wouldn’t mind – the hotels or Jerry’s people or whoever knowing about us.”

Arthur laughs, too, so flattered by Curt’s teasing that he doesn’t know how to answer him.

“I don’t think I could,” he admits. He doesn’t think he could convince _anyone_ that Curt really wants him – can hardly believe it himself, in fact. If he had to ask some telephone operator for Curt Wild…

But Curt’s eyes are sparkling; he obviously likes the idea, absurd as it is.

“It could be a regular thing. You’d be the first famous gay groupie. Get your own NME covers and shit – Curt Wild, Brian Slade, and Arthur…”

“Stuart,” Arthur replies.

“Right. Sorry,” Curt says, shrugging. “Didn’t catch that last night.”

“It’s fine.”

They’d shared things that were much more important, and certainly much more enjoyable, than names. Arthur hadn’t expected either of them to care who he was. He’s giddy at the thought of Curt asking, Curt even _thinking_ of seeing him again. He runs his fingers along Curt’s arm, his whole body warm and his jaws locking from his smile, until he sees Curt tilt his head to look for Brian once more. _Still waiting – and if I do see him again, he’ll just be passing time_ while he’s _waiting._

Curt turns back to him abruptly.

“Not your style, huh?”

“What?” Arthur asks.

“Famous gay groupie,” Curt reminds him. “The NME covers. Famous _anything._ ”

Arthur shakes his head. “No. Definitely not.”

“Smart kid – ‘cause all this…” Curt waves his hand to indicate the hotel room, rolling his eyes – “Whatever. It’s a lot of pressure and a pain in the ass, too. I mean, it’s better than working a shit job in a gas station or something, hoping you finish in time to play this club or that frat party, then hoping those guys can pay for the gig – but still…”

What do you say to that? Arthur hasn’t the faintest idea – his experiences have been so profoundly different – but at the same time, knowing that Curt likes him enough to talk to him makes him stand up straighter.

“But you can do a lot of good,” Arthur ventures. “I mean, by talking about being gay or bisexual and things like that.” He’s totally sincere. Even if he had never met Curt or Brian, never been in a room with either of them – not even at a proper concert, let alone now – he would still have been better off because of their music and their example. “No one ever really talked about it before.”

Curt doesn’t exactly blush, but his eyes narrow and he stares down into his mug of coffee for a moment. Then he meets Arthur’s gaze again, as radiant and as confident as ever.

“I know,” he says. “We’re gonna change the world, me and Brian.” He pauses, then grins. “Does that sound arrogant as shit?”

“No,” Arthur says quickly.

“Probably was,” Curt counters with a wink, “but hey, if it’s working…”

Arthur nods and grips Curt’s arm, reluctant to say anything more for fear of lapsing back into a naïve kid.

“Anyway,” Curt goes on, “that’s probably more than I’ve said in interviews in my whole so-called career. You sure you can’t stay? Not that I want to steal you from another band…”

“I’d like to,” Arthur murmurs. He trails his fingers along Curt’s arm, stroking his way up to the back of Curt’s neck. Curt sighs, leans halfway into the bathroom, and drops the coffee cup onto the marble counter with a clatter before pulling Arthur close and kissing him firmly on the mouth. Arthur relaxes against him, tingling at the feel of his lips and that smoky taste. His cock starts to harden. He suspects Curt feels it, too, because he brushes his hand over the front of Arthur’s jeans before cupping his arse as Arthur stifles a moan against Curt’s mouth.  By now, Arthur has forgotten his headache. He tilts his head down to kiss Curt because he’s actually a little taller; Curt licks his lips, and Arthur parts them immediately. Never mind going home or feeling sore inside or anything. Curt could fuck him again right now, bent over the bathroom counter, and he’d be thrilled.

But Curt doesn’t bend him over anything. Instead he slackens his grip on Arthur, ends the kiss, and turns his head back toward the hallway where Brian is now standing. Curt’s face lights up in a way it never could with Arthur alone: Arthur feels sure of that. He shrinks into a corner, his stomach dropping.

“Still busy with that groupie, I see,” Brian comments. “Morning…”

“Arthur,” Curt cuts in, “his name’s Arthur.” But he’s laughing along with Brian as he says it, and the kiss they share has no room for Arthur in it. That’s fine. Arthur could never compete with either of them. He wasn’t about to try; he has to go home anyway, after having had the time of his life. But he stares at the marble floor, ignoring the nausea flooding back to his awareness and the sudden sinking feeling that he shouldn’t be here, that he _is_ just a stupid schoolboy from the suburbs, no matter what he pretends or who he sleeps with. Maybe he should have left earlier after all. It would have been better than being stuck like this, too awkward and defeated to try to join in when he’s probably not wanted.

After a moment, he forces himself to look up. They’re so beautiful locked together, and so unaware of him that he has to doubt whether he has actually been here – actually slept with them – or actually had Curt snogging him seconds before. He clears his throat. Still no answer. _Fuck_ , he thinks.

“Anyway, I’ll – see you,” he murmurs. He starts to bite one nail again, wishing he hadn’t spoken. _Pathetic…_

The sound of his voice breaks their kiss. Brian looks at him blankly. Arthur turns his face away.

“Wait,” Curt says, taking Arthur’s arm and squeezing it. “D’you have something to write with?”

_I just got dressed_ , Arthur thinks, annoyed, but he says that he thinks he does and fumbles in the pocket of his jeans. He finds a stub of a pencil wrapped in a shopping list for the Creatures, and can’t remember when he wrote that list or whether he picked up the food, drinks, and makeup he had noted down so carefully. He’ll ask them later.

He hands the paper and pencil to Curt, who scribbles a number while Arthur tries to hold Brian’s eye for more than a second. He can’t: can’t deal with Brian’s cool beauty and indifference, and doesn’t even know if he can trust Curt’s apparent interest. _But he just told me something he said he never tells people…_

It’s no good. He feels too exposed, too far beneath them despite Curt’s words and Brian’s gentle, idle caressing of his cheek as he draws closer to Arthur and tells him that he was a great third. The contact gets his pulse racing, but he’s confused, and almost wants to leave so he can try to make sense of his experience and his reaction. _Idiot_ , he fumes at himself.

“Do you need money for a cab?” Brian asks.

Arthur shakes his head, assuming the question is his cue to leave.

“No, thanks.”

Curt returns the paper to him and touches his shoulder.

“Where are you living?” he asks. “For next time.”

Arthur manages a faint smile, still hesitating. He doubts very much that there’ll be a next time: they probably _are_ just going through the motions, letting him down gently. But he had an amazing time, something tons of kids would give anything for. He should be happier, shouldn’t he? Yet here he is with a pounding headache behind his eyes and inside his temples, even in the tops of his cheekbones, and with a stomach that feels like he has swallowed ashes. _It’s just the hangover_ , he thinks. _Stop worrying about everything. You’ll be happy and grateful again in a few hours._

“I’m on the road a lot,” he says in answer to Curt’s question. Technically that’s true, and it makes him sound like he’s really in the rock music scene. “But I’ve got a sort of flat in Beckenham.”

He gives Ray’s address, hoping the neighbourhood will make him sound cool. It’s a sensible answer, too: if he had to crash anywhere, it would probably be with Ray, who has had a soft spot for him ever since he first winked at Arthur onstage the night they met.

Curt nods and pats Arthur’s arm, leading Arthur to wonder if he’s giving up too easily. He could at least be good for Curt, who seems to like and trust him. _Whatever pressure fame or other people put on you, I wouldn’t do it; I’d just be so happy to see you now and then…_ Christ, his thoughts are pathetic, too, like everything else about him. He wonders if he’s stupid to hope.

Then Curt leaves him to pull Brian into another kiss. Arthur backs away from them because, well, _hot_ as they are, he can tell he’s not supposed to be there anymore, which makes the scene a private one, doesn’t it? He must be outstaying his welcome now.

With that in mind, he heads toward the door, wondering how – whether – he’s supposed to disappear.

“See you around,” Curt calls to him.

Arthur turns his head to look at Curt, the faltering smile back on his face. _Maybe you will_ , he thinks.

Curt and Brian exchange another private laugh, and Arthur leaves the hotel room with their laughter ringing in his ears and his champagne hangover making him cringe in the bright corridor. It’s just like him to overthink every good thing that comes his way and end up ungrateful, desperate to be more than he is. This morning should be simple: last night was the best experience of his life. They were really nice to him, too – and, technically, he might see them again, in this scene. He should be happy, nothing more.

But he’s not so much unhappy as unsatisfied. Maybe not even that: maybe his bad mood really is just the hangover talking and he’ll feel better with some water and food in his system. That must be it.

He staggers into the lift, not quite the same person he was the day before, and not sure how exactly he’s supposed to _feel_ about the last few tantalizing hours, but eager to tell Ray and Malcolm and his other friends about them just the same.


End file.
